Little Ron - 09 January/06 February 2004 / part 2
08:23am 15.1.04, washed down about a gram of billy with vodka and orange, sprinkling in a bit of 'solid' (bog-standard but above the average of what this fucking country's flooded with) in every roll-ee. Got a Hendrix fetish on at the mo, just borrowed a box-set I've never heard before off (****), and whittled it down to a couple of tapes. Phew 'n' fuck it, we know the guy was a fucking genius but didn't live long enough to fulfill his potential, shite the fucking bed for fucks sake, he left enough fucking clues along the way and we will spend several lifetimes picking the fucking cunts up.
Amphetamine in it's purest glory of 'What - ho - roger - bottoms - up - you - what - fucking - rough - voyage or what - captain. Nah... you just come here... whatever or whoever you fucking well are... anytime you want... I'm here if u want a go... please... lacking sport... you know... never mind... I'll fucking loaf ya... anytime of day or night... surprise me please... I beg you... sorry... you've got the wrong bloke mate... I'm just a piece - loving - non - understanding - dalek - cybermen - empathizing, hypocritical sister.' Bollocks. Hendrix pushed and pushed at this fucking blues envelope, I think that's what killed him in the end. Well, fuck it, for good or for bad I'm following thru, following him thru, the gent, and if any cunt can (I'm totally fucking crackers!), it's me you know, hello, it's me. Who the fucking hell am I? I don't need any answers on any postcards please, thank you.
My curtains are closed and I'm laid back on my bed (alone) freaking 'n' smoking 'n' joking with Hendrix. He's doing Gloria now. Meanwhile back on planet bollocks it's totally light outside and the gulls are giving it fucking rock as usual and I couldn't give a fucking flying fuck (yes I could). Hey Baby, you be my voodoo chile in the land of the new rising sun? No, I need to chart my course thru this loneliness and frustration, gotta get thru babe! Jimi didn't, but I will. COME ON YOU CUNT, BLOW ME AWAY! Till there's nothing left after, but my temple balls. Fucking - billy - fucking - whizzed! Wot ho! I shall try to never mention her name ever again in these letters, but it still hurts like fuck (a bit on and a bit off, now and again).
Crystal sputum in it (the ashtray), shining and bubbling with glory, great for putting fags out into but a bit scary when pulled and stretched, an alien being, inter-globular, viscous (fish) 'n' the thing, fillet 'o' fish, and all the rest of it, I've forgotten what I was on about and who gives a flying fuck anyway. No question, Mark. Need a woman, here, now, but not just any woman. Crape hair. Billowing thru the curtains in the glint of it, a/the diamond moon, once in a while. I'm so lonely and frustrated and trying to contain it all whilst speeding off me fucking tits (given as a present for me birthday, cunt wouldn't let me pay for it, I'm not complaining like). Bing Bong Bang. Higgins. Gonna go see Mary now, 9:28am. Ta-ta. Tar.
You eaten rabid fish? Smells like it in yer bucket. Full stop, comma, gob. Full stop. Basically what happened was this. I fed a piece of tube up his 'arris and then fed 3 ½ metres of barbed wire up it into him, then I did the same to her with the other end of the barbed wire so they were back to back with about a foot of barbed wire between 'em, connecting 'em so to speak. Then it was time for 'em to start to hop like a frog or rather a toad. Then jumping. And finally running away from each other as fast as they can. Jesus - fucking - H - bastard. Cunting - fucking - H - bastard Christ, you should have seen the fucking mess! Oh well, you can't make an omlette without breaking eggs. Didn't need to use me gun (much). Finally finished foes sphincters forever. Vanquished. Vaseline (ha-ha)... No. Carnage.
Got in Sat. night (31st) and fucking totally fucking cracked up. Greetin' like a bairn. Howlin', weeping and wailing and crying uncontrollably. I'm so lonely and it hurts so much and I'm sick of it, I've had enough and I don't know how much more of this I can fucking take. Gonna lock meself away and turn me phone off for a few days I think.
No, I don't think, don't think properly and this is the big problem. It's like I'm locked out of myself, locked out of my own mind. Or half-in and half-out horrible. Hubbard, gubbard, flubbered! Robert Pete Williams. I Got The Blues So Bad I Can Hardly Walk. I.G.T.B.S.B. I Can Hardly Talk. I'm As Blue As A Man Can Be. Louise is the sweetest gal I know. Jib yer rock of your altar. Monkey talk. Heads or tails. Of glory, or scum, pond-life, with beards or beard-wigs. Or? Ore oar. ROARR. Paddle. Ephemeral nightie. Why hide all the lacy gussets? Torture to think about. She will come eventually, but how much longer do I have to wait. Not a question 'cos theory and practice clash, mix, and are separated out again and the answer will occur in action, unspoken gem. Low ease. 4 get. Hume-ite. Get it. Stick Broken. Mended. Good as new. Better. Up another level. A Big One. This time. Aches and pains of transition. Fumes. Spectral scars no-one else can see. Haunted eyes. Shock. Therapy. Boast. Breakdown. Up. I got up feeling down. I woke up feeling down. The ghost of your goolies. Reading 'Bad Wisdom' by Bill Drummond and Mark Manning.
Blizzards of lizards. Fackin' Ada! Lisps. Lists. Invisibility. Strange weirdness. Icy folicles. Eyes lorries. A chink in the darkness, (of light). Off light. Heavy flashes oscillating.
-Willie Whistle? x
